Shadows (Howe)/At the Heart
HE heart is but a narrow space
For paltriness to find a place;
But in its precincts there is room
Sufficient unto bliss or doom.
The certainties, so few, are there,
The doubts that feed the soul with care;
The passions battling with the will
To guide their liege to good or ill;
The saving grace of reverence,
The saving hatred of pretence;
The sympathy of common birth
With all the native things of earth:
The love begun with life, the love
That years diminish not, nor move;
And—more in such a narrow space?—
The image of a woman's face.
AT THE HEART
HE heart is but a narrow spaceFor paltriness to find a place;
But in its precincts there is room
Sufficient unto bliss or doom.
The certainties, so few, are there,
The doubts that feed the soul with care;
The passions battling with the will
To guide their liege to good or ill;
The saving grace of reverence,
The saving hatred of pretence;
The sympathy of common birth
With all the native things of earth:
The love begun with life, the love
That years diminish not, nor move;
And—more in such a narrow space?—
The image of a woman's face.